Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  The window stopped at half-mast.

  “Have either of you seen my father?”

  “Not me,” Chad said.

  Sally harrumphed loud enough for Michael to hear her over the chugging engines. “Not since the viewing room earlier. I left to answer the phone, and when I got back, he was already gone.”

  Michael nodded and signaled them off. The coach bucked out of the parking lot, and streams of vehicles lined up behind it, forming a parade down Alabaster Road.

  He watched until the last car disappeared around the corner, then allowed his shoulders to sag. Exhaustion pummeled his body, every muscle and bone seemingly screaming for relief from even the simple task of standing. A light breeze brushed across Michael’s face, and he scanned the empty parking lot. Dusk was closing in, but his day was far from over. He still had a funeral home to get ready for the next day’s viewings, bodies to embalm, and a father to confront.

  Wearily, Michael headed back into the building.

  He’d barely crossed the lobby when he heard someone mutter, “Shit!” from inside the viewing room. He paused, not recognizing the voice. Had the Stevensons left someone behind?

  Michael peered around the doorjamb, relieved to see Agnes. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

  “I’m fixin’ not to be,” Agnes said. She was on her knees near the bloodstains with a spray bottle of spot remover in one hand and a scrub brush in the other. The divider wall had been pulled across the room, and the narrowed space made the crimson mess appear bigger.

  With a gloved hand, Agnes dipped the scrub brush into a plastic bucket half filled with water beside her. “This crap ain’t coming out, and it ain’t gonna come out.” She sat back on her heels. “What’d they do? Slaughter a pig?”

  “The mother cut her wrists.”

  Agnes squinted up at him. “I didn’t see no ambulance outside.”

  “They refused to let us call one, just bandaged her up themselves.”

  She shook her head, labored to her feet, and tossed the scrub brush into the bucket. “I told you them people was bad juju. Look here, they already gonna cost you a brand new carpet.”

  “Maybe a steam cleaner will get it out.”

  “Nope. New carpet,” she said authoritatively and peeled off her gloves.

  Not wanting to get into a debate, Michael said, “Fine, new carpet. I’ll close this part of the room off and deal with it tomorrow.”

  “Good enough then. I already finished cleanin’ the lounge and bathrooms, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll be headin’ on to my house. I’ll finish up here early in the mornin’.”

  “Sure,” Michael said. “But how’d you get those other rooms cleaned so fast?”

  “Oh, I got my way,” Agnes said with a mischievous grin.

  “I’m not even going to ask what that might be.”

  “Smart man.”

  Michael touched her arm as she walked past him. “Thanks, Agnes. I really don’t know what I’d have done today without you.”

  Her smile broadened. “Probably be stompin’ knee deep in shit by now.”

  “Probably.”

  He walked Agnes to the front door, then after locking it behind her, leaned against the jamb and listened to the silence. No music, no voices, no yelling, nothing. Glorious nothing.

  With great effort, Michael pushed himself into motion and headed for the prep room. Halfway down the hall, a chill ran up the back of his neck, and he had an overwhelming sense someone was behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and caught the tail end of a shadow slipping into the viewing room, the one with the ruined carpet.

  Michael stopped short, knowing he’d locked the front door. How could Agnes have gotten back in there?

  “Hello?” he called.

  No answer.

  “Agnes?”

  The only response was the sound of his left knee popping as he headed back to the viewing room.

  “Dad?” Michael peered into the room and found it empty save for a few chairs and Agnes’ cleaning supplies.

  Michael turned off the lights and started for the prep room again. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d captured something unusual in the funeral home from the corner of his eye. Weak flashes of unidentified light, a skittering shadow now and then, sometimes just a sense of nearby movement. Most of the time Michael shrugged off the episodes to fatigue, which was a standard lot for funeral directors. There might be truth, as some claimed, to a soul lingering behind after death, but Michael felt his hands were already overflowing with the living. The last thing he needed to deal with was ghosts.

  He was almost to the next corridor when the chill returned. Michael brushed the back of his neck with a hand, meaning to ignore it, when he heard what sounded like a titter behind him. He spun around.

  Nothing there.

  “Who’s here?”

  Another snicker—from the opposite direction.

  He whirled about again, and caught sight of something black, like the coattails of a long jacket, rounding the intersecting hall.

  Michael took off after it, his leather shoes slipping across the floor as he raced down the hallway. He swerved left into the connecting corridor, just in time to see the embalming room door ease shut.

  He stumbled to a halt. The prep room door had a keypad lock of which only three people had access. His father, Chad, and himself. Since Chad was busy with a hearse, and he was standing in the hall feeling like an idiot, that left Wilson.

  Michael stormed up to the keypad and punched in a code. As soon as he heard the click of the lock release, he shoved the door open.

  “Dad, where the hell have you been?” he demanded while flipping on the light switch.

  When Michael’s eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, he frowned. Aside from the two corpses from Magnolia Nursing Home, the room was empty.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The last time Wilson squatted behind a bush was four winters ago when he’d gone hunting with Buster Fremont, an old lodge buddy. Three breakfast burritos had sent him shimmying down from a deer stand and into the nearest thicket. Montezuma’s revenge wasn’t Wilson’s problem now, however. His own stupidity was. He should have never taken off his jacket.

  “Mother friggin’ piss ant,” he muttered as another leg cramp seized him. He sat, resting his back against the house, and stretched out his hampered leg. From this position, he couldn’t see the road or the funeral home unless he leaned far to the left. Not the best conditions for surveillance, but his legs would only take so much stress.

  He rubbed his right calf and listened intently to the rustle of hedge leaves and the sound of car engines growing ever distant. Finally, no more Stevensons.

  “About damned time,” Wilson fumed.

  He’d been hiding out ever since Janet left, which seemed like forever ago. After she’d given him a lousy twenty bucks, he’d headed for his car, which he’d parked two blocks north of the house. On his way there, Wilson had reached into his jacket pocket for the gold medallion he’d swiped from the casket, a big, expensive looking piece that would surely get Lester Vidrine off his ass for a while. But the damn thing wasn’t there. Wilson had retraced his steps to and from the house again and again but found nothing. He was convinced that the only other place the medallion could be was in Michael’s bathroom. It must have slipped out when he’d taken off his jacket before washing. And with the rash driving him crazy, his hearing not being what it used to be, and the carpeting on the floor, it was no wonder he hadn’t heard it fall.

  “Who the hell puts carpet in a bathroom?” Wilson mumbled for the hundredth time. Asking the question gave him a droplet of satisfaction. It allowed the blame to be redirected to something other than his own asininity. Hell, if there hadn’t been carpet, he’d have heard the medallion fall to the floor. And if he’d heard it, it wouldn’t be lost. It’d be in Vidrine’s hand right now, probably on its way to Porter Smack, his fence.

  But no, he was stuck here, waiting for the coas
t to clear so he could break into his own son’s home.

  Although Wilson’s original plan had been to wait until the funeral home had emptied, he decided to hold out a little longer. There was still too much sunlight for him to attempt climbing through a window. If he had been younger, he might have given it a shot instead of hiding in the bushes like a goddamn squirrel. But he wasn’t young. The way his body moved now, the neighbors would have time to contact the FBI and the local news station, then have both of them set up on Michael’s front lawn before he’d make it across a windowsill. That left Wilson no alternative but to hide and wait. He couldn’t hang around here too long, though. Sooner or later, Michael would come home.

  Wilson scowled at a miniature triangle of twigs, through which he viewed Michael’s mailbox. By now, he figured his son knew about the theft. Michael might be soft around the edges, especially where his wife and kid were concerned, but he wasn’t dumb.

  An empty funeral home undoubtedly meant a closed casket, and with the apprentice out making removals, Wilson knew Michael would have been the one to close it. He also knew he’d taught his son too well. Check the hair, the casket lining, the clothes for wrinkles. Make sure everything is in pristine condition before closing the lids. Unless Michael had suddenly gone blind, the boy knew by now the medallion was missing.

  Wilson didn’t feel especially proud about what he’d done. In his opinion, stealing from a casket put a man on the same level as vomit under a shoe. But he’d had no choice. He’d told Michael this morning he’d gone to visit his dying sister, and he had, but his delay in returning to the funeral home hadn’t been caused by an accident on the Pontchartrain. That had been Lester’s fault.

  Lester, Shit Face, Vidrine, with his tinted glasses and crooked teeth, had caught up with him by happenstance at an intersection, just as Wilson drove into Brusley from Metairie. After forcing Wilson’s car to the side of the road, Lester promised him two broken kneecaps and a missing spleen if he wasn’t paid in forty-eight hours.

  Two damned days. One bad marker after fifteen years of doing business together, and Lester acted like he couldn’t trust him anymore. And for ten grand no less. What kind of business partner snubbed you for ten grand? That was rabbit food compared to the money Lester had made on him over the years.

  Wilson kicked at a branch, wishing it were Lester’s face. He could do it, too, pulverize the bastard and shove him into a milk carton—if he caught him alone. But when it came to Lester making good on a promise to punish, he never handled that business alone. He always brought along backup. The kind with bulky, hairy arms and chests the size of Oldsmobiles.

  Frustrated and hot, Wilson rested his head against the brick siding. The rash he’d had earlier was no longer noticeable, but he still felt it prickle just below the surface of his skin. He forced himself not to scratch, assuming the allergy, or whatever it was, would react like poison ivy. The more you scratched, the worse it got.

  To take his mind off the hives, Wilson closed his eyes and thought about Magdala Rhimes.

  Magdala was a feisty, fifty-eight-year old widow from Jacksonville, Florida with huge silicone boobs. More importantly, she had money. Wilson had met Magdala on a casino boat in Baton Rouge and wound up relocating to Florida with her and her cash for over two years. Except for her constant bitching about him drinking too much, they got along fairly well. Their relationship went south, though, after he’d gotten a tip on a sure shot with forty to one odds. When Wilson told Magdala about the opportunity, she suddenly went stingy on him, refusing to fork over the money. The stakes were too high she’d said, even for the potential payout. Wilson all but begged, wanting to run the tip high and hard. But Magdala wouldn’t budge. So, not being one to let an opportunity slip by, Wilson had called Lester. A few long-distance connections, and all he’d had to do was sign his name on the dotted line, then let the ten gees roll.

  How was he supposed to know the damn horse would trip a quarter of the way to the finish line? Hell, wasn’t that why they called it gambling?

  Wilson was tired of everyone getting on his case. Magdala for his drinking, Lester for his damn money. It seemed like no matter where he turned these days, somebody was riding his ass about something. Even Michael. But his son was a situation he would straighten out soon enough. The boy was getting way too big for his britches, turning his back on him like that. If Michael had given him Stevenson’s money like he should have in the first place, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  Kids just had no gratitude these days. No respect for the sacrifices their parents had to make day after day, year after year. That bullshit needed to be set straight once and for all.

  First things first, Wilson thought. The number one order of business was getting the gold piece back. The second, shoving it up Lester’s ass. After that he’d take care of Michael. It was time somebody taught the boy respect for his elders, and Wilson figured he was just the elder to do it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Janet tapped her foot against the brake and slowed the van down to thirty-five miles an hour. Creeping along Highway 6 into Carlton, she noted, as she did every year, how little the town had changed. Herbert’s Garage still stood in rusted determination on the corner of Highway 6 and Madeline Street next to the Fountain of Life United Pentecostal Church. A block down on the right was Settler’s Mini-Mall, home to Cal’s Western Store, Louisa’s Naked Furniture, and Bubba’s Drive-Thru Bar-B-Que. Two blocks ahead, just before a fork in the road, cows grazed in a nearby pasture blanketed with blue-green grass.

  To the left of the fork stood the Cotton Patch, a long, white building with cherry red trim that served as Carlton’s service station, grocery store, three table restaurant, and overall gossip center. Rodney and Sylvia Theriot owned the Patch. They’d known the Savoy family since the mid ‘50s, when Michael’s grandfather, Joseph, built the cabin west of town. Joseph had hired the Theriots, at that time a couple in their mid-twenties, to watch over the place when the family was away. In exchange for grass cutting and weekly checks on the place, the Theriots were assured free burial services and heavily discounted caskets.

  Janet veered right onto Highway 1226, which led to the cabin. Across the narrow road, massive oak and pecan tree branches arched and sagged, offering shade and a temperature drop of at least ten degrees. A little farther on the right ran an unmarked, limestone street that meandered through a forest for about a half mile. Janet turned onto it, listening to the stones crunch under the van’s tires.

  “Finally,” she muttered when she turned into a clearing.

  The cabin was a white, two-story Acadian style built on brick piers. Thick columns supported the roof over a wide front porch, and hunter green shutters trimmed each window. The two-acre lawn surrounding the house looked freshly mowed.

  She pulled up to the front of the house and killed the engine. Resting her head back against the seat, she basked in the stillness. Such a long way to travel for such a short stay in an old house. Getting away from the madness in Brusley had been worth the drive, but just as important, coming here also made her husband and daughter happy. When Michael was a boy, his grandfather had brought him to Carlton each year so they could attend the fair together. It was the only family tradition Michael seemed eager to hold onto, and one she would never deny him.

  The thought of Grandpa Joseph made Janet smile. He’d been a kindhearted man with a round face and small frame. He’d compensated for his stature with attitude, one of overwhelming generosity and a stoic love of family. Except for size, Michael was the axiom of the apple and tree. One certainly hadn’t fallen far from the other. Wilson, on the other hand, seemed to have come from a completely different orchard.

  Quickly dropping Wilson from her thoughts, Janet reached for the rearview mirror, tilting it down so she could see the girls, who were asleep on the back seat. Overall, they’d done well on the four-hour trip. They’d kept each other occupied with singsongs and little girl gossip. She grinned at the contrast they cre
ated sitting together, their heads drooped to one side, touching. Heather’s black hair—Ellie’s blonde. Heather’s skin sun toasted—Ellie’s pale. Unusually pale—too pale.

  Janet sat up and turned to look at her daughter. Her usually scrubbed pink face looked chalky and dry. She reached over the seat and touched Ellie’s knee.

  “Honey, wake up.”

  Ellie’s eyes fluttered open. “Are we there yet?”

  “I’m hungry, Aunt Janet,” Heather said. She sat up and rubbed away spittle that had dribbled across her left cheek.

  “Me, too,” Ellie agreed with a nod.

  “Both of you ate just an hour ago, so I don’t think there’s a threat of starvation. Ellie, lean over here a minute.”

  With a yawn, Ellie unbuckled her seatbelt and scooted to the edge of her seat. “But we’re starving a lot, Mama.”

  “Where’s the cabin?” Heather asked. She pressed her face against the window.

  “Right there, silly.” Ellie pointed to the house.

  “But a cabin’s supposed to be all broken down and stuff.”

  Ellie shook her head. “Huh-uh.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Aunt Janet . . .”

  “Time out, you two.” Janet touched Ellie’s right cheek. Faint pink tracks followed her fingertips over her daughter’s skin. “What’s on your face?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your face,” Janet said. She sniffed her fingertips. “Were you playing with chalk?”

  Heather reached up with a finger and rubbed it against Ellie’s other cheek. “Look,” she said with a giggle, “I can draw a smiley face.”

  Ellie shooed Heather’s hand away. “We don’t have chalk, Mama. Only colors and markers, and see?” She held out her arms and flipped them back and forth. “I didn’t even get none on me.”

  Janet opened the glove compartment, but found the Wet Ones container she kept in there for emergency cleanups empty. She closed the compartment and opened the van door.